


A Different Sort Of Arrow

by marchingjaybird



Category: Marvel 616, Thor (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-23
Updated: 2011-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-21 16:47:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/227406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchingjaybird/pseuds/marchingjaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sif's body has more uses than simply winning back trust he doesn't deserve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Different Sort Of Arrow

**Author's Note:**

> Set when Loki had stolen Sif's body, so he is physically a woman during the story, although I used masculine pronouns. Written for Porn Battle XI.

It is not the first time he has inhabited a woman’s form, though this time is subtly different as the figure is not of his own fashioning. Sif’s limbs bend for him, her blood rushes to power his desires. He brushes dark hair and pleasure kindles in him to think of how it came to be so very black. He has taken to bringing a servant girl with him at night and sitting with his legs spread while she plays beneath his skirts, tongue swirling and flicking as his female fingers comb over and over through hair that does not belong to him.

Balder finds him thus, sprawled in a chair, blood staining white cheeks as the girl brings him to climax for the third time. He has long since given up playing with Sif’s dark hair, and is thinking instead of how this tight, beautiful body has lain beneath his own brother, has quickened under Thor’s hands as it does now under the careful ministrations of a nameless girl.

“Loki,” Balder murmurs. The chair is turned away from the door and Loki sighs, fingers stroking the girl’s cheek as he answers.

“My lord. What is it?” Balder steps into the room, still unknowing, and Loki’s hips swivel, shifting the girl’s head. She readjusts, her inexhaustible tongue lapping at his clit and sending shivers of wicked pleasure through his belly. He closes his eyes and imagines it is Balder there, on his knees, so beautiful in a position of abject servitude. The climax that follows on the heels of such a thought is slow, rippling, and the girl pulls back, fingers slipping up into the aching slickness between his long legs.

“I seek your advice,” Balder says. Sweet words, considering all that has passed between them. It was Loki’s finest day when he convinced Balder to accept him as advisor. “There are troubles that weigh heavily on my mind, and I would speak with you.” The girl’s fingers stroke in and out, in and out, and Loki drags dark green nails across his nipples. They stand out through the thin fabric of his shift and he toys with them as he answers.

“Do you, my lord?” he purrs. This has been in his mind a long while, and tonight is the night. There is vulnerability in Balder’s voice, uncertainty, and he is already flushed with pleasure and smelling of sex. “Or do you seek comfort?”

“Loki?” The confusion in his voice is like a caress, and Loki comes again, tightening around the girl’s skilled fingers. She starts to move back, swollen lips parting, but Loki’s hand stays her, lifts her from her place on the ground. Balder stifles a gasp with little finesse as Loki pulls the girl close. Their lips meet and his tongue sweeps out, claiming his own sweetness from inside her mouth.

“Thank you, my dear,” he murmurs. She smiles at him, her pale eyes full of worship, all uncaring that he has neglected her needs so callously. Tomorrow, he promises himself. He will have her screaming his name tomorrow. “You may go.” She brushes past Balder on the way out, fingers pressed to her lips, a secret little smile on her round face. Loki watches the sway of her round hips, then turns his attention to his brother.

Balder begins to speak, then falls silent. There is nothing to say in the face of Loki’s debauchery and they both know it well. Loki catches sight of himself in the mirror as he crosses the room, lush and ripe and dressed all in green. Balder draws a slow breath and rests his hands on Loki’s slim waist. “You tease me,” he sighs. “How many times did she bring you to climax while I stood here?”

“Twice,” Loki says. He takes Balder’s hands, guides them up. Slim, lovely fingers part the front of his shift, baring white breasts. Balder shudders, his fingers tracing their full curves.

“Wicked,” he says and it sounds almost like benediction.

“Yes,” Loki answers. He backs away, beckoning with long fingers, and Balder follows, shedding his clothes as a tree sheds its leaves. Loki stops at the foot of the bed and Balder falls to his knees, eager hands pushing aside the filmy shift, warm lips finding Loki’s skin. He rests his head against the gentle swell of Loki’s belly, strokes his palms down the backs of his strong thighs.

“What have you done to me?” he pleads. Loki’s fingers card through Balder’s hair. He is so beautiful, so sweet, as lovely now as he was the day that he died. Loki remembers that day, the bloodstain on his breast, the shock in his clear eyes. Balder the Bright, scourge of his dreams ever since.

“Nothing,” Loki says, stroking Balder’s face, drawing it up. Balder’s lips part, close around one of Loki’s aching nipples. “Why, do you suspect a lie, my lord? Do you think that I would stoop so low as to trick you into my bed?”

Balder murmurs denials into Loki’s white skin as he presses him to the bed, Loki’s legs rising, wrapping around Balder’s waist to pull him in. There is no need to touch, to explore; Balder is desperate for him and Loki is slick still and they come together in explosive need. Balder’s hands circle Loki’s wrists, holding him against the bed, and Loki whispers endearments into his king’s ear, little lies and half-truths that Balder returns readily and truthfully. Whispers of desire punctuate the rough slap of flesh on flesh. Breathless admissions of need are accompanied by low cries of pleasure.

Then, finally, as Balder’s steady, deep thrusts begin to falter and grow erratic with building desperation, as ecstasy builds again in Loki’s belly, he wraps his fingers in Balder’s dark hair and pulls his head down and whispers in his ear, breathless, voice cracking, “My lord, I love you…”

Balder cries out, hips slamming forward, and he seems to grow brighter, more beautiful than ever. His skin is luminescent, his hair like coils of perfect midnight across his brow. Loki stares up at him in wonder, unmindful of his own pleasure even as he comes, even as Balder’s seed fills him and drips down his stolen thighs. His fingers stroke a glorious cheek and Balder looks down at him and his eyes are as stars, and the tears slip unbidden down Loki’s face.

After, they lie together in the dark, Balder’s head pillowed on breasts that are not Loki’s, his hair smoothed by a hand that has never been Loki’s. “Did you mean it?” Balder asks, soft words against white skin that is still browner by far than that which Loki can call his own. “Do you love me?”

And Loki thinks bitterly that the question would not have come up had he not stolen the body of Thor’s wife, had he not trapped her and bent her flesh to his will. Balder would not have come to his bed, would not have spent himself deep inside Loki’s own, eager body, would not have stayed afterwards to stroke affection into Loki’s lean, ugly figure. And that, really, is the crux of the matter, the bone that sticks in his craw. None of them love _him_ , they only love what he does for them, and are so quick to turn on him that the curs gnawing bones under the table have a better time of it than he.

“Of course,” he murmurs, filling his mind with ugliness, holding foremost in it the image of Balder with an arrow of mistletoe driven deep into his heart. “Of course, I do, my lord.”


End file.
